


The Nar-Shaddaa Connection

by Cara_Loup



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Adventure, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cara_Loup/pseuds/Cara_Loup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A risky mission takes Han and Luke to a lawless world where Han has to face old enemies – and old friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nar-Shaddaa Connection

"Yep, that’s it." Han Solo leaned back in his flight chair and flexed his arm muscles, stiff with a subtle tension that had wound its way into him almost unnoticed. "Nar Shaddaa. As ugly and uninviting as ever. Feels like coming home..." 

From the passenger seat immediately behind, Luke had been watching the view intently. 

The spaceport moon, once a prospering cargo port before the decline in trade reduced Nar Shaddaa to one more derelict, ungoverned world, was girdled in steel, a charcoal wraith against the backdrop of star-spattered space.

Next to Han, Chewbacca commented on the vista, his throaty rumble mixing apprehension with resentment.

"Courage, fuzzball." Han grazed his Wookiee co-pilot with a mocking glance as he throttled the Falcon’s engines to slow their approach until contact with the local portmaster had been established. Fingers gliding along the com keyboard, he filed his request for a landing permit and levered out of his sloped-back chair in one swift motion.

"So this is where you used to live, huh?" Luke said. He looked up in time to catch the wide grin Han flashed him, a brief glitter in the hazel eyes revealing some of Han’s anticipation, while hiding another part of it.

"Three years, kid. And when I left, I took a holy oath no amount of money was ever gonna bring me back. Goes to show _never_ ’s a word that’s good for nothing." He brushed past Luke with a brief clap of the younger man’s shoulder and a muttered, "Watch out for trouble, I’ll be back in a minute."

It took considerably longer than that, and when Han finally returned from his cabin and paused in the cockpit’s doorway, Luke lost track of the sensor readings spiking across the monitor in front of him. With only a second’s delay, his hands resumed their routine dance across the keys, but his eyes were riveted on the man leaning against the jamb.

Han’s posture was lax and confident, one hand hooked to the gunbelt where an additional sidearm gleamed in the dimmed lighting. Clad in tight black pants tucked into polished boots, a silky black shirt and a short jacket made from soft telani suede, he no longer resembled the Rebel Alliance general. Ex-general, ex-consort of the princess Leia Organa ― and ex-smuggler. It seemed that the latter incarnation of Han Solo had found its way back to the surface: a facet Luke was less familiar with. Gunfighter, pirate, mercenary. Lean, dark elegance radiating vigilant calm, his gaze unfocused and strangely somber with memories Luke couldn’t guess.

"Like my outfit?" Han asked casually, not turning his head for so much as a sidelong glance.

Annoyed at himself, Luke made a pointless attempt to cover his reaction. "I thought we were supposed to be inconspicuous," he said.

"Yeah. This is it. I’ll blend right in, you’ll see."

"I doubt that."

Han’s mouth curled in smug amusement. "Thanks for the compliment... I think."

The coordinates that scrolled across the navicomputer’s screen drew Luke’s attention back to the control board. While Chewbacca gave a low woof of disbelief, Han only chuckled and said: "Told you they’d let us land. No problem. Maccao knows me." For Luke, he added: "Ready to take a plunge into my dark past?"

"Well ― how dark can it get?" Luke shook his head at the eloquent glance Han tossed him. "Show-off," he muttered and tried to ignore the sweep of unwelcome sentiments, the intense tingle of curiosity.

For the blink of an eye, Han had turned into a stranger. Years of familiarity were simply stripped away to bring back the man Luke had met in the dim shabbiness of a Mos Eisley cantina ― Tatooine farmboy sizing up the Corellian pirate across the table. And with the lightspeed flashback returned a primal intensity of feeling that belonged to another, discarded life. A convolution of curiosity, defiance, and attraction gained ground inside him when he met Han’s dark eyes.

Eyes that had seen too much already, but gave nothing away. A man with no past, living by the spoils of the day: back in Mos Eisley, that was all it took to challenge the farmboy’s desert-starved imagination.

While he stoically fixed the controls, Luke was all too aware of the subliminal tension between them ― something he’d vaguely considered competition, back then. He knew better now.

Han’s presence, the fractional brush of body-warmth when the Corellian slipped back into his seat, stirred Luke’s senses. The attraction he felt was far from innocent, far from safe. A wanton thrill ran through Luke’s body, and he clamped down on it brusquely.

Bizarre notions like these had plagued him much too often lately, and he’d always refused to indulge them. Why should it make any difference that they were travelling right into the middle of Han’s undisclosed past? Luke made himself focus on the view ahead and purged his mind in a quick sweep of will. There was a mission to be considered.

Nar Shaddaa filled the viewport with steel-black clusters of bristling defense arrays, docking towers and watchposts, fingers of laserlight swiping across battle-streaked surfaces at irregular intervals. Barges and shuttles flitted in and out of the mile-high grid that cleaved the crumbling port cities, adding their runlights to the maze of wandering beams. Strobic disruptions plunging the layered shadows back into unrevealing opacity, jealous of their secrets.

"They’re lowering shields," Luke reported with a perfunctory glance at the sensor readouts.

"Here we go then." Han brought the sublight drive back online. A gentle vibrance hummed through the deck plates as power built with a thrum of pulse Han kept throttled, a half-smile playing on his mouth. The engine’s expectant throb mounted until it sent tremors through the hull that Luke felt reverberate inside himself, shivering up his legs, and then Han kicked in the drive, releasing the Corellian freighter into a jet-blaze of speed, diving for Nar Shaddaa.

 

The Falcon sank toward an access chute and arrowed for the heart of the decayed city. Blazing holoscreens of enormous proportions rushed past. Below, a wreath of pale green guidelights fanned out from a narrow landing terrace and cradled the freighter that settled amidst sputters of steam.

The air was cold and humid against Luke’s skin as he descended the gangplank and sifted through the blend of pungent smells. A slow shiver rippled through his muscles, anticipation and curiosity prompting him to lean over the rail. Another level below the platform ran a street lined with soup kitchens and vendors’ stalls. Voices and bubbles of blaring music wafted up.

Han tapped his shoulder. "Let’s get goin’, kid."

Luke nodded. The strangest sensation had gripped him ― as if he were about to enter a different world where life was played out by entirely alien rules.

The street level was distinctly warmer. Fumes clogged above the gutters, and the strafing runlights of countless airspeeders and floaters mixed with a barrage of brightness from colorful advertisements in a variety of alien scripts.

"Reminds me of Coruscant," Luke said as they stepped from the lift which had transported them down from the landing terrace.

"Except that it’s dirtier and no one’s ever cared to install a proper administration." Han allowed Chewbacca to take the lead and edged a little closer to Luke’s side. "It’s more like Jabba’s palace blown up to the size of a planet, minus a Rancor."

"Too bad... I’m pretty good handling Rancors." 

"Oh, sure." Han shook his head at Luke, but the fond grin faded again fast. "I know you can take care of yourself, but just this once... The place is crawling with low-lifes ‘n all sorts of slime, so stick close ‘n if I tell you to duck or run or whatever, just do it, right?"

"Sure ― General," he said lightly.

"I mean it, Luke."

When he met Han’s eyes they were shaded and intense, and for once, Luke was unable to read his friend’s expression.

They turned into a broad avenue illuminated by rows of glowlanterns woven across the street on steel-fibers. Opening his senses to the city, Luke felt a buzz of electricity whisper along his nerves, slipping past the protective barriers of discipline. He breathed in the night, its sharp aroma of quick thrills and jeopardy, let it ease the pressure of constantly having to define his responsibilities and duties ― because he was the last of his kind, last of the Jedi, an extinct species.

But not here, where nobody knew him, where no one wanted their names asked and identities changed hands with the rest of the booty.

An unreasoning sense of adventure had locked his muscles, filled him with expectation as they wandered through the maze of streets, and it intensified when he glanced sideways at Han.

Han’s expression had brightened noticeably, the moment they’d entered the Corellian sector of Nar Shaddaa. Clearly delighted, he kept his eyes on passersby of diverse species and the open doorways of taverns lining either side of the avenue, until eventually he stopped in front of a stone-and-stucco palace. Brilliant lights in all shades of apricot and pink spilled out from huge windows. A Drakmarian in full body-armor guarded the entrance.

"Maccao’s casino," Han said.

In spite of the gaudily lit windows, the lobby was dim, and the barroom beyond lay in smoky, light-speckled darkness. Loud music drowned out the droning babble of conversations conducted in a dozen languages. Squinting into the gloom, Luke smelled spilled intoxicants, sweat, and the thick, sweet fumes of Kessel spice. Hand on his elbow, Han steered him through to a wide, equally crowded hall where wealthier patrons thronged around sabacc tables. Luke breathed deeply and tried to ignore the casual touch.

They crossed to the circular bar, the towering form of Chewbacca drawing wary attention from the casino’s clientele, easily procuring free space for them.

Han turned to scan the room through lowered lashes. Under his lax posture simmered constant alert, and the tension he felt from him sent Luke’s hand to the grip of his lightsaber, hidden under the loose jacket. The bartender slid a glass his way, then two more for Han and Chewbacca.

Han scowled at the watery ale, but sipped on it nonetheless.

"Tell me more about Maccao," Luke asked in another attempt to remind himself of the necessities which had brought them here. "You think he’s gonna help us?"

Han wiped his mouth and leaned back against the bar. "Maccao used to be a smalltimer in Kessel spice and built up from there," he said. "I suppose he’s still carving his slice off gambling, but he sure runs more than just this place. There’s a big organization behind this... spice ‘n weapons trade, most of it. But Maccao never got involved with Imperials ― not his style. I don’t think he’s changed his mind about that."

"He’d know if someone else was selling arms to the Imperials though," Luke suggested.

"Exactly." Han pursed his lips. "Question is if he’s gonna blow the whistle on the guys who do."

"Do you trust him?"

Before Han could answer, a tall man approached from the far side of the gambling hall. Luke saw his friend’s eyes narrow, noticed the infinitesimal tightening of Han’s fingers around the glass. The newcomer stopped a few paces away from them and stood with folded arms, his posture a single expression of hostile arrogance. Pale, short hair reflected silvery in the shine of glowspheres, but the man could hardly be older than Han, Luke judged. Han’s sudden tension reflected back through him, and without making a move, he readied himself for a confrontation.

Detaching from the bar, Han crossed towards the man with the deliberate swagger Luke had seen him use many times. Lazy confidence concealing tight alertness, fingertips within touch of the blaster’s butt. The same, cool readiness settled Luke’s mind as he watched.

A few steps away, the stranger’s chin rose fractionally, but what he said was lost across the distance. Luke only saw his head snap sideways the next moment and, following the other’s gaze, glanced over his shoulder.

A compact man stood in the doorway behind the bar, silhouetted by warm light pouring from the room beyond. By Han’s immediate reaction Luke could easily guess the newcomer’s identity: Maccao.

While Han returned to the bar, the silver-haired stranger reluctantly trailing behind, Maccao approached with the lax equanimity of the proprietor.

An elegant, dark-skinned man with curly black hair, he reminded Luke of Lando, but that was where the likeness ended. His long nose, straight brows and slightly slitted eyes lent him a distinctly fiercer expression. Luke read shrewd intelligence in the man’s black gaze that appraised him for a brief moment, then drifted back to Han. At the temples, his hair was slightly dappled with grey, the only available indication of his age.

"What a surprise," Maccao said in a well-modulated baritone and exposed shiny white teeth as he smiled at Han. "I’d almost given up hoping you’d ever find your way back here."

"Maccao." By his side, Luke felt Han stiffen ever so slightly and wondered at the tone of familiarity. Without giving it any thought, he’d assumed that Maccao was one of Han’s former business partners, but the way the man studied Han seemed to suggest a great deal more.

"Join me," Maccao continued. "I’d like to talk with you." His obsidian gaze swept away from Han and pinned the silver-haired man in place, stalling an objection before it could be articulated. "Demian." The cool tone seemed sufficient to stop every thought of interference. "If you’ll excuse us for awhile."

Inclining his head, Demian slunk away.

Han made no answer, but before he left the bar, his hand closed around Luke’s shoulder briefly, reassuringly. Then he followed Maccao towards the back room.

Luke bit down on a reflexive stir of resentment. If Han trusted Maccao enough to risk being alone with him, he couldn’t very well object. Eyes narrowed skeptically, Luke watched after them.

Stopping at the door, the dark-skinned man turned sideways and gave Han a sudden, brilliant smile, his voice a gentle drawl when he spoke. Luke couldn’t catch the exchange, but noticed Han’s awkward grin and the confused gesture his hand made as it pushed through thick, dark hair.

For one long second, Luke’s gaze drifted across Han’s tall, rangy frame, down the narrow hips and long legs ― until the door closed on him. With part of his mind, Luke still wondered about Maccao and what his exact relations with Han had been, all those years ago, but the rest of his mind had plunged back into thoughtless fascination.

For some reason, the unfamiliar milieu had started to loosen his usual restraints, and he checked his unacceptable reactions just barely. There was no way he could give in to this and let his half-conscious fantasies about Han go any further. He couldn’t afford to lose Han’s friendship, it was as simple as that. And yet, for the first time Luke wondered if his friend had already noticed what he’d never quite admitted to himself ― a most disturbing possibility.

And a challenge.

Change and choice offered at the price of insecurity, at once enticing and unsettling ―

Profoundly flustered, Luke turned back to his drink. Once they’d started serious work, these thoughts and sentiments would fade into the background again, where they belonged. This particular mission wasn’t to be treated lightly, he reminded himself.

Several weeks ago, Intelligence agents working for the Alliance had traced illegal arms trade to Nar Shaddaa. Han had immediately volunteered for quiet investigations in an environment he claimed to know better than the back of his hand. And so they’d travelled to this enclave of lawlessness to identify the warmongers supplying the fallen Empire’s scattered forces with large quantities of thermal guns, detonators and nuclear explosives.

Next to Luke, Chewbacca shifted uneasily and growled, his deep-set eyes fixing the back room’s door.

"I know," Luke said softly. "I’m not sure I like it, either."

* * *

A melange of strange feelings beset Han, bewilderment foremost among them ― at finding Maccao and his less than functionally furnished office so completely unchanged. Desk and narrow divan covered in piles of printouts and datacards, faded holos and old books on the shelves, a half-empty glass of blue soda on the table, all of it bathed in the tired neon glow. The years that had passed since he’d stalked from this very office shrunk to a brief, insignificant moment, and Han felt himself slip back into his earlier self as if trying out an old garment and discovering, in surprise, that it still fit. Maccao pointed to a chair, and he sat, expecting almost anything.

When the silence lasted and uneasy anticipation began to make Han feel like a cadet expecting a reprimand from a senior officer, he leaned back self-consciously and asked, "So ― you’re doin’ alright? And Demian’s still with you."

"My right hand," Maccao said neutrally. He walked around the desk lowering himself into an old, wooden armchair, in stark contrast with the high-tech gleam of computer equipment framing him. Black eyes raked Han for a thorough study, softened only by the hint of amusement that curled the older man’s lips.

"Let’s talk about you," Maccao said. "We’ve heard a few hot rumors ‘round here, and Salla’s been saying there must be a namesake, or a double, to work all those miracles."

"Salla? Is she still around?"

"From time to time."

"I don’t know," Han retorted uneasily. "What have you heard?"

The older man cocked his head, but the dark eyes never left Han’s face. "You destroyed the Emperor’s Death Star, led an army in the battle of Endor, almost married a princess of Alderaan. Almost ran for office, too."

"Seems you’ve heard a lot."

"Let me put it this way: I’ve kept an eye on the career of... a former protégé." A smile developed in the corners of Maccao’s elegant mouth and traveled upward to the dark eyes with a flicker of affection.

Han stretched his legs, shifting into a more comfortable position. "I didn’t destroy the Death Star," he said, "just covered for the guy who did. And it was Lando who led the attack group at Endor. As for marrying Leia... never got close to that either. She’s the politician, not me."

Maccao absorbed the sketchy information with unreserved interest. "You quit, huh? Any plans for the future, Han? Wanna get back into the game?"

"Not likely. Guess I’ve pretty much ruined my reputation with unnecessary heroics, haven’t I?" Han grinned. "Nah, no plans yet. Just sorting myself out, y’know."

"Regrets?" the other man probed.

Denial sat on Han’s tongue, and with the growing swell of memories triggered by an all too familiar environment and Maccao’s presence came a backlash of adolescent impatience. "Look, I _had_ to leave," he said, pausing to cool his edgy tone. "Okay. I s’pose I should’ve talked to you. But I couldn’t face up to it at the time."

"I know." Maccao watched him for another silent while, then abruptly switched the topic. "Who’s the handsome blond kid tagging along?"

Something in his tone made Han bristle, demanded a snappish retort that he swallowed fast. "We’re friends. And Luke is―" ... _a Jedi_ , Han meant to say, but he caught the careless remark before it slipped. "I owe that kid my life a few times over. Hell, I could tell you a couple stories about _him_ wilder than all those rumors you’ve heard, and much closer to the real thing. Let’s just say Luke went to hell and back for me."

A black eyebrow arched. "Why do I get the feeling that hell’s a place you visit on a regular basis yourself?"

Han glanced aside, because Maccao seemed to read too much in his eyes ― or maybe he’d just made a clever guess ― but Han wasn’t ready yet to allow for instinctive trust, once the natural foundation of their relationship. Attached to it, still, was an absurd sting of failure and betrayal.

"There’s all kinds of hell," he said curtly. "I’ve had my share."

When Maccao rose, Han had the distinct feeling of being let off the hook. "Let’s go upstairs and have dinner," the dark-skinned man offered. "Your friend’s invited, of course."

"Sure." Han pinned on a bright facade of casualness and followed his former mentor out the office.

* * *

Despite the openly displayed luxury of Maccao’s apartment, there was a noticeable touch of restraint in the arrangement of artifacts and furniture, an imprint of taste refined by discipline. Luke didn’t find it hard to picture the man in quite different circumstances, from austere war room to run-down warehouse, always blending in with the same, controlled ease.

Throughout dinner, Maccao watched him closely, although he kept the conversation nonchalant and asked no questions that might have forced Luke to circumvent or deny. The man’s quiet interest was due, he realized, not to who he was and what he represented, but solely to his attachment to Han ― an entirely new experience. Luke felt a sting of resentment at being studied and scrutinized like that. Like... a rival? 

He almost shook his head at the notion.

They hadn’t quite finished their desserts when Demian entered the dining-room and approached Maccao with a rigid formality that exhibited rather than covered his hostility. Pale eyes drifted past Luke and settled on Han, hardening fractionally as Demian bent to address Maccao in whispers. The dark-skinned man nodded and rose with an apologetic smile.

"Duty calls. I’ll be back."

Straightening, Demian stepped aside, but the resentful coolness faltered when Maccao patted his hand and ran gentling fingers up his arm. It was the perfect casualness of the gesture that struck Luke, and the brief exchange of glances that followed, revealing genuine affection. The intimacy of feeling that warmed Maccao’s gaze seemed very much at odds with Luke’s perception of the man. Demian tossed a slim, triumphant smile in Han’s direction that met only unruffled complacence.

"He doesn’t like you very much," Luke observed when the pair of them had left.

Han ladled the last mouthful of his dessert out of the crystal bowl and shrugged. "Yeah. You would’ve thought he’d gotten over that in the meantime."

"Over what?"

"Something like... sibling rivalry, I guess. Adolescent nonsense."

"Uh-huh.“ The sharp sidelong glance Han threw him created another prickle of tension on Luke’s skin.

"What?" Han asked, voice toned down to a rare, velvety depth.

"Well ― who is he?"

"A lost kid stranded here. Like myself," Han answered, his tone casual again. "Maccao broke him in. Taught him the rules of the game, y’know, made him part of the organization."

"Like you," Luke suggested.

"Nah..." Han reached for his glass, drained it and stretched languidly. "Sure, he taught me a few tricks, but I liked my independence better. Demian was different, a comer, he wanted... a _career_. And now he’s close to running the store, it seems."

"Looks like he’s more than just a business partner."

There was a significant pause, and Han stared hard at the empty glass when he said, "You got that right. They’re lovers. Have been all those years, for all I can tell. Surprises me, to be honest, ‘cause I never took Maccao to be the faithful type." He let the information sink in, then added, "Does that bother you?"

It didn’t. And yet, an odd strain of tension continued to tingle along Luke’s nerves, made him want to bounce from his seat as it pooled wantonly around his stomach. "Maybe it isn’t standard code of conduct on Tatooine," he said at length, "but I’ve been around since."

There, at least his voice sounded perfectly normal.

"Sorry!" Han splayed his hands in front of him with a grin, but when their eyes met, Luke caught a glitter under Han’s amusement, the same look that had crept up earlier ―

For a terrible instant, he was certain that Han could see clear through his facade. Without noticing, he’d let something slip, and Han knew exactly how he’d trapped himself between the warnings of reason and glaring confusion.

Luke stiffened when a lean hand reached across and settled on his forearm, the gesture a strange combination of reassurance and caress. Perhaps it was all just a game to Han...

Before he could react, the door opened again, and Han withdrew his hand. Demian still at his heel, Maccao returned to his seat.

"Excuse the interruption," he said smoothly. "You’ll be staying overnight, won’t you? I have a guest suite ready for you." Turning towards Luke, he added, "Demian will show you and the Wookiee the way."

The clear, if amiably phrased dismissal irked Luke, although he couldn’t possibly argue with Maccao’s wish for another private moment with an old friend. The man’s overperceptive eyes seemed to read his hesitance, too. Inclining his head curtly, Luke turned on his heel.

* * *

Han didn’t bother to wipe the scowl off his face, even if Maccao ignored it, rummaging for a particular bottle in the cabinet. "What’s this all about?" he grumbled.

"Aw, come on..." Maccao’s winning smile was as dazzling and effective as ever. "Indulge me." Handing a refilled glass over, he settled comfortably. "I think I’d like to know more about your quiet friend. A fascinating man."

"You―" Han interrupted himself with an irritable gesture. A show of temper would be wasted on Maccao, he knew. "Alright. Get it off your chest. Ask."

"How long has this been going on?"

"How long has what been going on?"

"I’m not retarded, you know." Maccao chuckled. "Nor am I blind. The way you look at him tells me a long, long story."

"Oh yeah?" Han growled. "About what?" He was on the defensive, sliding back into his earlier strategies of evading Maccao’s accursed perceptiveness that had never really worked. Pretty pointless, at that. Han grinned in self-mockery and relaxed. "Okay, you got me. I’ve been growing attachments of late. Finally figured that being your own man ain’t the only thing that counts."

"And... Luke had a part in that, I assume."

"He’s the one got me involved in that idealistic Rebel crusade. To say the least." Maybe Maccao would let him get away with that laughable understatement. Han poured himself another drink, mind wantonly adrift on dancing reflections that bounced off the amber liquid in his glass.

How long _had_ it been going on?

Months, he answered himself, or even longer. The restless, haunting electricity at work in his body, undefined need and contradicting impulses overriding each other ― sometimes, when Luke was so close, and everything he wanted just within reach. He’d been broadcasting every surreptitious message in the book, but Luke ignored all the signs.

"Does he realize?" Maccao asked gently.

Han gave a brief, flustered laugh, and when the black eyes narrowed immediately, wished he’d hung on to his composure. Maccao had always read through every facade he put up, and it was only after he’d left Nar Shaddaa that Han realized how very effective his poses had become.

"He wouldn’t," Han finally said. Luke could be so unsettlingly sensitive to one thing, and totally blind to another.

"So you’re just waiting? Is he the reason you declined the hand of a princess from Alderaan?"

"No." Han felt his features freeze into hard neutrality, in spite of Maccao’s light tone. He wouldn’t leave this room before all his carefully constructed self-protections had been stripped away. The kind of revenge he deserved, maybe.

"Trouble?" Maccao inquired in an unexpectedly compassionate tone.

Han grimaced. "We’re friends. Close friends."

"So? Friendship doesn’t have to be a snag." Maccao crossed for the cabinet and helped himself to another drink from a different decanter. On his way back, he clapped Han’s shoulder and leaned down to add confidentially, "I have a feeling he’s not as disinterested as he’d like you to believe. Give it a try. And I mean a _real_ try this time."

Surprised, Han looked up, producing a lopsided grin. "You old meddlesome―"

"I’m just having a good time watching you writhe, Han Solo," Maccao interrupted him blandly. "Still remember the day you informed me in all your youthful righteousness that you could never be attracted to another man. Ever."

"And I was wrong," Han finished sourly. "Go ahead. Say I told you so."

"I told you so." Maccao smiled brightly and winked at him. A _ping_ from his comlink stayed the conversation, and Han sagged in his chair, unashamedly relieved. Maccao unnerved him, made him feel like the precocious, arrogant youth he’d been when they met, and he strongly suspected Luke could see that, too.

* * *

Above and below, the city simmered with restive energy. From the guest suite’s arching window, Luke traced the patterns of wandering lights, his eyes yet unaccustomed to the different shades of dusty twilight that marked day and night on the spaceport moon. The city brushed his senses with an unclean tangle of sentiment and sensation exuded by Nar Shaddaa’s motley populace ― wind-blown lives wired on adrenaline, haunting the gambling palaces and the back-streets, waiting for the single stroke of luck and glory ― and he absorbed the feverish mixture with a deep breath.

Stranger in a strange land where everyone was an outcast by choice or necessity... Luke, who’d learned to accept that the particular choices he’d made precluded belonging anyplace, found the notion both comforting and unsettling. On Nar Shaddaa, you could be anything, anybody. Maybe that was why Han had stayed so long.

And maybe that was what caused the stir of questions and unexplored possibilities inside him and brought back desires yielded to needs far greater than his own.

Luke tried to picture the youth Han might have been ― brash or insecure, obstinate or confused ― ungathered, unfinished. But the images he conjured instilled only a deeper sense of loneliness, and his mind placed more recent recollection against them.

The glitter in Han’s dark eyes, searching him.

The unspoken promise, implicit to his touch.

And what if it was nothing but a game? Luke leaned his forehead against the cool window-pane and closed his eyes. Did it matter? Flickers of nervous anticipation were shading into excitement, and behind closed lids, he probed the sentiments brought on by memory. Curiosity and desire lending a sharp edge to the closeness between Han and himself, threatening to overthrow the dictates of rationality.

_What are you afraid of?_

He’d never been very close to anyone, except Han and Leia. Had never found it in himself to trust as much, rely so completely on friendship and understanding. And because Han was so different, so firmly rooted in his own vagrant life, Luke had always considered himself fortunate. And yet...

There was the challenge, lodging somewhere under his skin, just outside the grasp of reason. To raise the stakes, reach for more ― and perhaps lose everything.

_And why not?_

For a split second, Luke wondered if the gambler’s attitude Han cultivated so judiciously had rubbed off on him. Or if he was just imagining things, prey to the tricks that his own unpermitted desires played on him.

When he looked up, Chewbacca prowled around the suite, obviously impatient to return to the Falcon he insisted on guarding during travels. The Wookiee straightened at the low whistle from Luke’s comlink.

As soon as he’d opened a channel, Han’s drawl filtered through. "Hey, what’s keeping you? You coming down to the bar for a drink?"

"I thought you’d never ask," Luke said drily. "I’ll be there in a minute."

 

Music loud enough to send its rhythm shivering through his bone-marrow wrapped around him with the hot, smoke-filled air that clung to his skin and enhanced the effects of the drinks they’d had with dinner. Luke angled through the crowd, mind cocooned and strangely detached until he spotted Han in a corner of the bar. Until he met a raw intensity in the Corellian’s gaze that had been there before and finally forced itself to full attention. Luke indulged a moment of lightheadedness as he joined Han by one of the tall, slender tables, peripherally aware of Maccao and Demian a few steps away.

"Drink?" Han asked. His mouth twitched in amusement when Luke accepted with notable delay.

Aware of his stiff and clumsy motions in a way he hadn’t felt for years, Luke raised the glass to his lips. On his other side, Maccao chuckled at something his taller partner murmured for his ears alone, and Luke caught himself staring at the pair ― as if that could keep him from staring at Han. He knew what was happening and found it impossible to believe, felt a stir of impatience and a sense of liberation that shocked him for being so vast. The self he’d built had started to crack, unaccountably, a crustacean’s shell hardened over the years, at once suffocating and brittle.

"Let’s try the bar," Han suggested, tapping his empty glass and pointing to where patrons thronged.

Only when they pushed in that direction did the fact register that the clientele of Maccao’s casino was exclusively male. Some of the men were leaning in shaded corners, watchful in proud isolation, some stood in close groups, bubbles of laughter underscoring their rowdy conversations, while others were dancing under pumping lights that fragmented every motion.

Luke swiped at his damp forehead and drained half the glass Han had pushed into his hand. His mind had picked up a disconcerting habit of seizing on random details ― like the harsh reflections of light on the bar-droid’s metallic fingers, the holo of an ancient deep-space caravel floating under the vaulted roof. The lenience of Han’s mouth softening into a distant smile, the singsong accent of men from the Outer Rim colonies ― all of this woven in with an abstract hunger that lingered everywhere. For distraction, for temporary relief and self-oblivious thrills.

Han, who seemed to relax into this milieu with thoughtless enjoyment, tossed off his drink, eyes roving restlessly.

"So ― did you tell Maccao about our... investigation?" Luke asked.

"What? Oh. Yeah." Waving at the bar-droid for a refill, Han shrugged. "There’ve been Imperial parties stopping over, he says, and no doubt some of the local profiteers are dying for a deal with ‘em, but Maccao feels they couldn’t possibly supply anything like the quantities the Imps must be looking for. They’re not in _his_ league anyway."

"Maybe somebody’s keeping it very quiet."

"Ain’t much that slips past Maccao," Han countered, almost with a touch of pride.

Although unconvinced, Luke did not press him further and postponed discussion until later, when they’d retired to the privacy of their suite.

Han took the emptied glass from his hand unasked, and when he returned it after a quick refill, let his fingers brush against Luke’s deliberately. "What’re you thinkin’, huh? Like my old haunts?"

"Seems like a great place to get lost when you don’t want to be found," Luke replied slowly. Part of his mind insisted that somewhere along the way, they’d slipped through the interstices of reality to play out a strange fantasy. And yet, the probing darkness in Han’s eyes reached for him, as firm and immediate as physical contact.

"That’s right. Something everybody needs from time to time. Get lost, let go, find out what happens."

Reluctant amusement tugged Luke’s mouth. "You might be in for a surprise."

"Anytime." The speculative grin Han gave him added distinct suggestions, and Luke turned away after a moment. If they were playing a game, no one had pronounced the rules yet, and the stakes might change as they went along. Always the most dangerous and the most delightful of games, Han had taught him that much.

Searching his mind for a measure of control, Luke let his attention be drawn by a column of light on the bar-room’s far side and the creature that climbed a small stage.

"A dancer from Delab," Han explained. "Wanna go take a closer look? They’re spectacular."

The music changed as they made their way towards the stage, dark and reverberant rhythms stirring the stifled air. Someone moved close to Luke’s side, and he found himself facing an olive-skinned stranger whose words didn’t carry across the drumbeat.

"Buzz off," Han growled before Luke could react and slung his arm around Luke’s waist with careless impudence.

The light touch triggered a flash of disturbingly poignant sensations. Luke stiffened reflexively.

"Hey, relax," Han said. "Don’t wanna spend the rest of the night declining more or less indecent proposals, do you?"

"I don’t see―"

"Yeah, but I do," Han cut him short. "I can see more eyes than I care to count trained on you. Now, watch this..."

The fragile Delaberian had risen to full height, shimmering tentacles weaving with the music, light playing across translucent limbs. Luke took another step forward and absorbed the sight of supple, boneless grace, depleting his mind of the many questions that came. Sweet-sharp scents and brightness and the rolling rhythm and nothing else. The light that spilled down became part of the flirtatious dance he watched, a spray of luminescence released with every swirl of slender limbs.

His mind drifted with it. Almost before Luke knew, he visualized Han’s younger face, caught at the memory of the stranger Han had been, the wayward look in his eyes as he studied Luke across the table in Mos Eisley. His younger self had responded to the challenge and the mockery with quick instinct: defiant, delighted.

"Well, what’d I say?" Han asked, from close behind.

"Amazing," Luke murmured.

"Yeah. Makes you wonder how they avoid tieing themselves into knots every other minute." Warm breath grazed the side of Luke’s face as Han bent closer, one hand still molding Luke’s hip with light pressure.

Not the man he knew, not the friend whose every reaction was safely predictable, but the stranger of years ago, reckless and passionate.

"I suppose they know exactly when to stop," Luke said, deliberate in his double meaning.

He leaned back into Han experimentally, the contact with a warm, hard body creating a pleasant, liquid tingle. Han’s arm wrapped around his waist, drawing him deeper into the circle of body-heat, anticipation and sauntering drums cajoling his pulse to match their quickened pace. The light that poured down over the alien dancer throbbed and fractured in an explosion of color.

Luke’s eyes slid half-closed as he explored the sensations ― the gentle pressure of flat stomach and narrow hips against his back, the silky whisper of Han’s loose shirt, the bony edge of a wrist resting against his lower torso, and the slow heat building inside him.

Every touch, every fractional contact passed through him like an electric signal, kindling equally clear responses. But the clarity of sensation sparked a confusion that belonged entirely to his younger self. Little by little, Han’s nearness reduced him to galvanized nerves and raw tension. Luke forced himself to breathe deeply. He needed control. He needed to remind himself that all of this was part of a game they’d agreed to play with never a word.

The music stopped, and Luke slipped from Han’s possessive grip, freeing himself smoothly.

"Wanna leave the party?" Casual tone and narrowing eyes contradicting each other, Han watched him closely.

"Yeah. We need to discuss our plans for tomorrow. And get a rest."

He was playing for time ― they both knew that ― but Han accepted his evasion with a half-smile and a nod.

"Whatever you say, Luke."

 

Lounging on the divan in their suite, Han repeated Maccao’s appraisal of the situation and pointed out their options to start the hunt. But his calm wasn’t quite as aimless as he tried to make it seem, and Luke knew Han was waiting patiently ― for a sign, for a cue.

"And you’re sure every ship and cargo gets registered before they land or leave?" Luke asked skeptically from where he stood by the open window, arms folded.

"Kid, there’s guys around here who live off the backhanders they get for manipulating registrations. Keeping the authentic record somewhere’s kind of an insurance for them. Yeah, we can find the data, once we’ve found the right people to talk to."

"So that’s where we start out? Port security?"

"Maybe. I’ll get Maccao to give us a few names, and then I wanna look up a couple old buddies ‘n the place where I used to live." Han rose from the divan and set an empty cup down by the drink dispenser.

"I thought you lived _here_."

Startled, Han looked up, and his expression was slow to develop into a crooked grin. "Can you see me walk away from this kinda luxury to work for the likes of Jabba?" he asked sarcastically. "Nah, my old den’s a humble place, so be warned. Couldn’t afford any better. Y’know, Maccao likes to keep the young blood hungry and under constant pressure."

The name had been mentioned once too often. With a mental shrug, Luke succumbed to the insistent demands of curiosity. "Seems like you two used to be pretty close," he probed.

Han crossed towards the window and sent a distracted glance out into the ever-restless street canyons. Flickering lights were reflected on his face. "Close isn’t exactly what I’d call it." Long fingers combed through the dark hair, then Han turned, adding, "Maybe Maccao’s mellowing these days, I don’t know ― look at how soft he’s grown with Demian! When I knew him, he picked his companions like he picked art and furniture and the rest of his possessions."

"I see."

A dark gaze raked him. Too late, Luke caught the excess of meaning in his own retort, felt another flash of tension mixing with a spark of anger. He voiced the next question, aware that Han had seen it coming a long way off ― ever since their arrival, possibly. "And you were one of them?"

Han grinned. "No. Wasn’t interested in male lovers at the time."

An overture, as obvious as it could get. Luke met his eyes and took the bait. "Meaning you’ve changed your mind."

Han slanted him a long, speculative glance before another step brought him close to Luke. "You know what Her Worship used to say: I change my mind about every other day, and then back again. But, yeah, I’m interested. How about you?"

The blunt question shot a flush of unexpected heat through him, warming Luke’s face before he could quell the reaction.

"Is that... an offer?" he asked and felt another profoundly ambiguous tingle at playing a game beyond his control.

"What if it is?" The strange little smile reappeared, lenient and arrogant at the same time. Volatile, as though Han still considered withdrawing what he’d thrown into the gamble.

"You can’t be serious," Luke challenged.

Han pinned him, hands on either side of his shoulders. "I am," he muttered. "Like hell, I am."

"Curious, you mean," Luke said hoarsely, holding his gaze.

"That, too."

Han bent until his mouth hovered close to Luke’s, the moment drawn out with long, quiet breaths. Luke felt the wall cool against his back, the wash of noise from outside receding, and he closed his eyes to shut out the familiar, angular face and the unvoiced question in Han’s eyes.

The first brushing of their lips sent a slow, endless ripple across the surface of Luke’s mind ― as if he’d been waiting for this much longer than a day, a week, or a month. He leaned into the teasing caress, an impassioned response tearing from some unexplored corner of his soul.

Pulling Luke close against him, Han deepened the kiss with the full pressure of his body, and for the time they could hold their breath, hands moved, searching for a firm grip, heat was shared between hungrily clinging mouths.

Luke felt the tremors spread inside as he inhaled Han’s scent, twisted his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. All familiar and irrevocably strange ― to know Han in this way, to hold him, learn him... The rush of desire stormed through his thoughts and sent them scattering.

"I want you," Han said, his voice roughened and unsettlingly gentle. Sure of his conquest.

There, the game came to an abrupt end. Drawing on cool irony, Luke fought a disturbing impulse to give in. "Am I supposed to fall on my back just because you say so?"

_Am I nothing but a mirror for whatever you want to see―?_

In an instant, Han’s gaze became shuttered and wary, sealing away the swift hurt Luke had caught when he’d opened his eyes.

"Come on," he tried to placate, "we’ve both had a few tonight. Might not be the best of times to get into this kind of experiment."

The voice of rationality had resorted to absurd excuses, but he needed the time to stop and think ―

Han took a step backward. "You wanna go for being reasonable and sleep it over, huh? So tomorrow you can tell me no with a clear head." He nodded. "That’d be much like you."

The words stung and made short work of his pretense, the wanton fantasy of an inconsequential interlude. What had he been thinking, to let all that hidden need loose, all the sentiments Han couldn’t possibly want―?

Luke felt his features settle into unrevealing calm. He knew exactly what had pushed him so deep into those invisible, protective shields ― the reason why others sometimes called him remote and cold, nonetheless drawn to his mystery and inevitably repelled when he refused to come unraveled at their inquisitive sympathy. Holding on to himself, because he had to. He’d expected Han to understand this much, after all they’d already shared.

"You’re not giving me any choice," Luke said.

"Ain’t I?" Han leaned back against the windowsill. "Okay. I’ll tell you about choice. And about Maccao."

He paused, and his words came back to Luke: _A lost kid, stranded here_... Not the gambler yet, the man who lived on the edge indefinitely, with never a thought for tomorrow.

"I didn’t have anyplace to go," Han said, "didn’t have anything but that damn stupid arrogance ― and he could see I was gonna get myself into the worst of trouble, being the bigmouth that I was. Pulled me outta the jams more than once. Taught me to respect the rules of the game, until I trusted him. Although he was the kinda teacher who lets you bang your head against every available wall any way you want to, with no sympathy to expect from him. I hated him for that ― know the feeling?"

"Yeah," Luke said shortly, recalling abated fury at his own teachers’ well-intending manipulation.

"I admired him, hated him, but I trusted him blindly just the same, and anyway I owed him a lot. Until he gave me the come-on." With an impatient gesture, Han let his gaze drop. "There’s a price to pay for everything, that’s what he taught me. It looked like plain old blackmail to me. Like he’d been waiting to name his price, while I was too bloody naive to see it coming. That’s when I left."

"And he let you."

"That’s right, though I didn’t realize for years. Didn’t understand Maccao cared enough to let me have what I wanted the most. Freedom."

A distant, long-lost dream, relinquished in tribute to growing up. Luke relaxed slowly. "Tell me," he said haltingly, "did you see yourself in me when we met?"

"I suppose." Han grimaced, caught at indulging a weakness. "But then again, I was never that innocent."

Luke gave a low laugh. "Naive, you mean? Totally out of touch with reality."

"No." Voice and gaze firming, Han shook his head. "Open and ready to take on anything so much it’d scare anyone in their right minds. And I didn’t want to be there to see you lose that."

"And here we are," Luke said into the probing silence that followed.

Come all the way from Mos Eisley, ripped apart and thrown together again ― the miles and the years that could not be shed even if, for a moment, they wished...

"Yeah. Here we are," Han echoed softly.

Something showed in his eyes during that moment and was gone again too fast to capture ― but Luke felt his pulse stumble all the same. The openness of this moment coursed through him, the possibility to share... everything, if only for one night.

Approaching the quiet man by the window, Luke trailed a hand up his arm. "I’m making it difficult," he offered, with a touch of irony Han was quick to emulate.

"Wasn’t expecting any different from you," he said. "Or myself."

"Then we’re even?"

"As long as you play fair."

Luke’s breath quickened, the waiting had become a pressure inside him that threatened to escape his control. "Do I?" he asked softly.

Hazel eyes flashed with interest and amusement. "Wouldn’t be you," Han growled, finally reaching out a hand that settled on Luke’s waist to coax him closer.

"Must be something you like about me."

"Takes one to know one, remember? Jedi or no Jedi, you’re just as stubborn and proud as you used to be, you just know better than to let on too much."

_Is this who I am?_

There was just one way to find out, one path to explore.

Through his reluctance simmered the need to be close, as close as possible to Han. To accept, without thought, all that was offered and trust that their friendship could balance it out in the morning.

Luke found his own anticipation mirrored in the dark eyes when he let his fingers clasp Han’s neck. Thick lashes fluttered against his cheek as he leaned over to taste the warm mouth again, allowed an embrace that skipped all the stages of suggestion and request, to challenge instead.

But the tight grip of Han’s hands told him there was more. Much more to it than just another challenge ― the long, unadmitted search for the equal Han needed to test his own limits. Luke wondered, fleetingly, why he hadn’t found that anywhere else, but sure enough he recognized the longing to find those powerful desires and their progeny of loneliness matched. To claim, conquer, and possess...

To surrender.

Sentiments he could not hide from Han wakened fast, incredibly fast to the pressure of a searching mouth fastening on his throat, then trailing back up to take his lips. Luke buried his fingers in the thick, soft hair and opened to the kiss, a pleasant flush of dizziness returning to sizzle along easily incensed nerves. Mouths moved eagerly, determined to make a conquest of each other, to explore and learn every secret that could be relinquished like this.

When Han released him, Luke fought to control his rough breathing. Gentle fingers touched his jaw, and there was a strange tenderness in Han’s eyes.

_Trust me_ , was what that touch and gaze said.

Luke closed his eyes briefly. He’d placed his life in Han’s care too many times to count, but this was different, and trust would have to wait until later. For the moment he could not trust the surge of emotion accumulated over the years, least of all the sudden, wanton readiness to give all, to _be_ whatever Han would ask for.

Han wound both arms around his waist and brought their hips close together for another cresting wash of heat.

"We need a bed to do this right," he murmured, brushing Luke’s ear with his mouth.

Luke resurfaced, startled at the measure of his own abandon and the quick stab of piercing sensations as Han pressed into him, fingers twisting in his hair.

"My bed," Han added, silencing objections Luke hadn’t thought of. "Because."

 

It would have been reasonable to undress first, but they were impatient both, and apprehensive about what stopping to think might yet do to them.

Luke found himself pulled down to the mattress alongside Han who slid his half-unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders and sent inquisitive hands across his chest in a first, swift survey of sensitive places, stopping nowhere. They kissed, without preliminary, without reserve, fingers moving into each other’s hair, breath leaping to a faster pace at the deeper taste of each other.

Luke locked his arms around Han’s back, exploring, with all his senses, the strangeness of intimacy with another man ― pressure of angular bone and taut muscle, rasp of a slight stubble on Han’s chin against his cheek, hard grip of a hand wrapping around his jaw. And the strength of him, the power contained in the muscles that tensed under Luke’s fingers, eliminating all need for caution.

A hand snaked down his side to skim his belly and search his groin, fingers slipped between his thighs, teasing the fabric of his pants across strangely sensitive skin with the searing whispers of hot silk. Luke moaned and drew the taller man across him, into a sequence of breathless kisses alternating with murmured words that fled their lips to be forgotten the next instant. Gasping against each other’s mouth, hips moving in a slow, tantalizing dance, they coaxed each other into a rhythm of dizzy pleasure. Warm lips feathered across his temple and closed lids, and Luke let his hands answer, stroking eloquent caresses down Han’s sides and up again. He dug his fingers into thick hair, tugged the dark head up to press his lips against Han’s exposed throat. A shiver fled across hot skin, breath escaped in a hiss of surprise.

Han’s arms tightened around him, and they lay still for a moment. Listening to their uneven breaths, Luke felt the pressure of Han’s chest against his own, the fluttering heartbeat there, spreading warmth through his entire frame.

"You feel so good," Han murmured, his expression at once gentle and savage when Luke looked up, uncertain how long he could endure that gaze.

_Trust me_.

He closed his eyes.

There was a sheer drop somewhere close, and nothing would catch his fall, if he let himself stray too far.

_Only for one night_ , Luke told himself.

He held Han close with an abrupt surge of feeling, pressed into him with full force. All the years that they’d known each other were right behind the touch. The competition that had softened into mutual teasing when they’d insisted on different beliefs and secure independence, desire banked along the safe distance of friendship. Another game that concealed their truth, a deeper hunger.

Luke gripped the broad shoulders and pushed Han back to cover the taller body with his own. Strong hands rubbed the small of his back and drifted lower with insistent pressure, drawing heat to the surface of his skin. Straddling the narrow hips, Luke thrust forward, felt the taller man arch instinctively, and Han’s ragged moan sent a swift chill of triumph lashing through him, fire and ice streaking along his nerves.

Leaning down, he claimed Han’s mouth for a thorough kiss, weaving playful caresses with his tongue. The hands that had cradled his hips loosened his belt, slid the zipper down to tug at his pants impatiently. He levered up ― and gasped at the sharp sensations lancing through him when long fingers curled around his erection.

Luke froze, struck by a sudden sense of unreality as he looked down into Han’s eyes, wide open and dark, searching his face.

"We’ve been here before, Luke. Just say the word."

The sound of Han’s voice brought a shiver to Luke’s skin, and he shook his head ― how could he stop now? ― saw the glitter in Han’s eyes, both pleasure and pride. He trailed his lips down the strong jawline, rested his cheek against Han’s throat, where a racing pulse beat against his lips. Supple fingers tightened and started to move on him, tormenting his overfired nerves. Luke pushed, gave himself over to the rhythm of wanton delight. Heat pooled in his groin with every stroke, until he fell into a mindless rhythm, short gasps smothered in the hollow of Han’s throat, tasting salty skin sweet against his lips ―

"Han..." When he lifted his head, Han was watching him and absorbed whatever showed on his face with total, rapt attention.

His control frayed. Luke secured both hands on Han’s shoulders, a small trickle of sweat making its path of ice down his breastbone as he pushed up and thrust into the warm hand, met Han’s gaze and filled his mind with it ―

― Han, urging him on with rough caresses and a faster breath, long legs wrapped around his own to trap him within the tight confines of desire. Trembling with the raw essence of pleasure, Luke heard the sound of that husky voice ― so changed ― and his own wordless answer escaping. A surge of pulse claimed his body. The rhythm went through him, tightened every muscle, rocked him until incongruous sounds of need were forced from his throat, and he collapsed, gasping as the full force of release took his breath.

Through a haze of incredulous, helpless contentment, he felt the hands that eased him off gently, soothed heated skin in long, unbroken caresses, and removed the rest of his clothing. Stretched out on his back, Luke waited for his heartbeat and breath to settle. Heavy warmth permeated his body, but through it he could feel an aching hollowness, an unfulfilled want.

It had not been enough. It couldn’t stop here.

He kept his eyes closed, tracing an odd tremor in his chest, a tide of feeling that built suddenly, and he drew back in bewilderment―

"Luke," Han murmured.

When he turned his face, there was nothing but the same, comprehensive desire in Han’s eyes.

"You don’t know," he whispered.

_Give me a reason to surrender to this, to you. Help me find out_.

"What?"

Han’s mouth brushed his temple, and he very nearly shivered at the tentative caress. Luke opened his arms to draw him close.

"Nothing. Everything." He shook his head. "Just hold me."

Han burrowed into the embrace with a long sigh.

Letting his hands roam, Luke traced incredible tension in every muscle, a breath that came faster at the smallest of touches ― and with it stirred a heady delight, when his explorations brought shudders from Han’s flesh and husky pleas from his lips.

Stroking and caressing, Luke began to strip away the rumpled shirt and pants, took a good, long look at the man that made Han fidget a little. His hands took the same route his eyes did, lingering only to dart off again, curious and playful until Han pushed him back on the bed almost brusquely, and the weight of his body brought a welcome sense of total reality ― close and hot, and very simple.

He accepted that he’d been conquered, for now, ready to give what Han wanted to take.

Ready for everything, if this night was all they could have.

They breathed together. Luke stroked his hands down the long back, encouraging the rhythm that set a pace for his own pulse as Han moved against him. Diffuse excitement spread again from nowhere, but his heart stumbled with it. Uneven breath dragged on his skin, lips and teeth nipped his throat both gentle and rough, and he wrapped around Han to join the ebb and flow of heat and pressure.

"Luke," Han whispered again, "damnit, Luke ― I want you. Now."

Heat flushed him as he pushed up against Han, matching the powerful rhythm with his own, framed the strong face in both hands and kissed him deeply.

There was something frantic to their lovemaking, the greedy, desperate impulse to take as much as possible at once, before life could get in the way.

"I’m ready." He breathed the words against Han’s mouth, felt a gasp brush his own lips in response.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. I want you," Luke said in low, sober tones, more than a statement of desire.

Han rested his mouth against his hair, for the moment strangely hesitant, and gave him a brief, fierce hug before he disentangled to reach for something on the shelf above the bed. A vial filled with some honey-colored oil.

"You’d... planned this?"

Han’s shoulders sketched a shrug. "There’s always hoping." But the wry tone faltered perceptibly, and he leaned down for a soft, lingering kiss, before he dribbled oil across his fingers. "Yeah, I’ve wanted this... before," he added in a lowered voice. "But it sure as hell takes a lot to figure you out."

Luke was about to answer, but Han’s fingers had slipped between his legs, and suddenly he had no breath left and no thought except amazement at the sharp thrills and the overriding desire he’d never known in himself. Heat entered him in short flashing jabs, in time with Han’s fingers, searching and preparing him, drawing him out to an unknown edge of pleasure. Until he couldn’t wait anymore.

"More," he brought out.

"Wait, just―" Han grated, "or else it’ll hurt..."

"No, it’s alright." He locked his hands around Han’s neck. "Come here."

Han licked his lips nervously as he poured more oil into his palm and slicked his erection with it. Eyes slipping shut in concentration, Luke drew his knees up, taking the weight and the pressure as he clasped Han’s shoulders to pull him closer ― and gave a startled cry. Han pressed into him, the flow of his motions unbroken, to fill Luke with a bright wave of pleasure and pain he hadn’t expected from his relaxed muscles. Hot, hard, almost more than he could take. The hand that touched his face was warm and damp and trembled slightly; there was a pause of withheld breath and wildly pumping pulse they both needed to adjust.

Trained instincts urged Luke to divorce his mind from too intense sensations, but he refused to take the sting of pain from the rapacious pleasure and whispered ― "yes..."

Han was inside him, and he wouldn’t be able to forget in the morning ― this frightful intensity ripping through the detachment and the excuses he’d used ― Han was too close now, holding him against a furious tide of feeling, to the white thrills running through him. Slowly and carefully, Han began to work his hips, back and forth.

He was falling, lost. He couldn’t seem to breathe.

But with every slide and push, the searing pleasure inched deeper into him, and each time Han pressed his hips up against him, he could feel the rush of blood join up with the quick throbs of pulse that seemed to harden Han further. Over a distance, Luke heard the wounded sounds he made as he joined the building cadence of Han’s steady thrusts and pushed up, to be filled entirely with this closeness. With him. Fingers slid through his hair, ran down Luke’s jaw, and the touch stirred him somewhere deep inside, the tenderness coasting along his nerves with ripples of fierce delight.

Han was over him, whispering, demanding, pleading as his rhythm tightened. He bent, captured Luke’s mouth and ground his hips into him, smothering moans, driving Luke deeper into a core of white heat. _More. Just ― more_. He groaned into Han’s mouth, thrusting back with his tongue. His limbs no longer obeyed his erratic attempts to control, and it didn’t matter anymore. Now it didn’t matter.

Luke felt the muscles in his legs draw tight against Han’s torso, felt his hips buck to the shortened thrusts, and he pressed into the hand that wrapped around his own cock and urged him towards another peak of mindless pleasure. He gave himself up to it ― to the violence of wanting ― wanting to reach... Han, and himself ― a limpid mirror, closer to the truth with every stroke and every breath ― and maybe he’d never see that expression on Han’s face again. Abandon, poignant and breathtaking. He couldn’t take much more.

Han twisted his hips and shuddered, panting, every muscle tensing to hold the moment that slipped ― into a final, savage motion. The tremors that seized Han sent a long ripple through Luke’s frame, sweeping over every inch of skin with bright electricity. He could feel the quick, hard throbs within, filling him again and again, Han’s bruising grip on his shoulder and the need that drove him through a rough, jerking rhythm. He cried out sharply, arching towards Han and the frantic completion of their joining.

The world spun out of comprehension, and he lay there trembling, until an inarticulate sound from Han brought him back. Into the damp warmth and the circle of strong arms relaxing slowly.

It would take a while, to put the pieces of himself back together.

Han held him, gave him lazy caresses that kept every thought at bay, until he eventually drifted off into sleep. Luke stayed awake for another while, his mind clearing and ready at last to oblige the truth.

He’d been falling in love too long to deny it now and spared no thought for tomorrow. Not yet.

* * *

He woke up alone. As he showered and dressed in a hurry, Luke felt a dead weight of apprehension settle in his stomach. He found Han in Maccao’s company, outside the casino, where the two men inspected a rented glider. Maccao was first to notice Luke, straightening with an amiable smile and a comment in Han’s direction.

"Hi, kid," Han said, his grin a little sheepish. "Had any breakfast yet?"

Luke shrugged. The scene before him was entirely unreal, and he felt disconnected, as if part of him had stayed entrenched in the night. "If you wanna be off, I don’t particularly care about breakfast," he said, surprised at the perfectly casual sound of his own voice.

"Yeah, I’d rather," Han returned in the same tone. He wiped his hands on a coolant-stained rag and gestured at the vehicle. "Just checking up on the gears of this thing ― then we can go."

Tired daylight colored the casino’s upper storeys a faded yellow and accented the cracks in its stucco facade. Two or three levels above, a feeble breeze stirred the air, but close to the ground clung stale, greasy smells.

Everything was back to normal. Luke fought the cold, bleak feeling that crept up inside him and grew into harsh disappointment. What had he expected, after all? That Han would be just as affected, just as unable to settle back into the familiar routine, the morning after?

"Done," Han announced, pushing a small cover plate back into place.

"Right." Maccao stepped back from the glider. "You know your way around, so I’ll spare you good advice," he said in Han’s direction. "Good luck, you two." He winked at Han and turned back inside, taking the casino’s steps in a light, confident stride.

Luke slipped into the passenger seat, pretending not to notice the quizzical sidelong glance that grazed him. "What are we up to?"

"Maccao gave me the name of someone who might be ready to rat on the portmaster’s dirty little secrets," Han said. "Someone we can’t look up quite that early in the day."

"Your place then?"

"Uh-huh." The glider angled up, and Han brought it around in a smooth turn. "Hey ― Luke, what is it?"

Luke inhaled slowly, let his forced casualness go. "You know very well that it’s about last night―"

"C’mon, let’s not talk it to death, huh?" Han interrupted, his usual, flippant self. "Okay?" He reached out, briefly patting Luke’s arm, his eyes on the street as the small craft accelerated.

The touch stung, an offense to wounded pride as much as the feelings that lay bare in every nerve. He simply hadn’t had enough time to raise the full shields of sobriety.

"Fine," Luke snapped. "And I generally prefer private affairs to be kept private, you know."

"I wasn’t―"

"Good," Luke cut in. "Then let’s get ahead with the job."

 

After they’d picked up Chewbacca who squeezed into the back seat with snarled comments at the vehicle’s impractical design, Han headed the glider back into the Corellian sector. Arrowing for a shaded canyon amidst derelict docking towers, the craft slid down the throat of a steep access chute. Landing platforms and gateways rushed past until they sailed through a portal that opened into a deserted alley.

"Salla’s garage," Han said, pointing ahead. "Well, not anymore, I suppose, but it used to be hers."

The repair shop was vast, stacks of spare parts arranged around a dismembered cargo hauler in the center. Chewbacca sniffed the air suspiciously as they entered, steps ringing on oil-stained duracrete. Luke followed slowly, the coolness of the place sinking into his bones.

"Anybody here?" Han called. After a few seconds’ wait and no reply, he said, "Maybe they’re all sleeping in."

"They’re open," Luke pointed out. He seemed to breathe in the past, brushing the edges of an alien, abandoned life. But something wasn’t right...

Han pulled up his shoulders and walked towards a passage at the back of the repair shop, when the defunct cargo ship’s runlights suddenly switched on, slanting icy white brilliance across the hall.

"Back," Han said tonelessly. "Get back."

The cocked blaster slid into his hand, and Luke had his own sidearm out a split second later, whirling at a crunching sound from behind. From the garage’s entrance, a human and a pair of tall droids were stalking them.

There was another moment of tense and total silence. Blasters ready, Han and Luke stood back to back, Chewbacca edging closer ― until the approaching threesome entered the light that revealed thermal guns and pieces of body armor salvaged from the Clone Wars, the bounty hunters’ trademark. A moving shadow at the periphery of Luke’s vision sent a flush of adrenaline into his blood.

"Han!"

Blue-white energy whipped from the cargo hauler’s broad back, and they fell apart lunging for cover.

Luke ducked under the ship’s dangling ramp, saw the two droids slink away and fired. The shot sliced a thin forearm off at the joint. Oblong head rotating, the maimed droid raised his rifle single-handed. Luke abandoned the imperfect shelter of the ramp and ran towards a parked service sled when a metallic bang resounded in his back.

The pile of empty canisters Han had chosen for cover erupted into flying metal debris under the staccato fire pelting down from the cargo hauler. Han rolled and scrambled to his feet, firing rapidly.

A sizzling blast forced Luke’s attention back to his immediate opponent. Crouching behind the sled, he aimed at the droid’s chest. Green sparks fled across metal limbs as control circuits burned out, and the droid froze in mid-motion. Luke spun at a shout from Han who was stumbling backwards, shoved aside by a furious Chewbacca throwing himself into the line of fire. A blue flare enveloped the Wookiee’s massive form, and he roared, staggering under the impact of a heavy stun blast, then slowly crashed to his knees. Han dropped down beside him, his face pale, one hand blindly groping for Chewbacca’s shoulder.

Luke started towards them instinctively, but was stopped by a wild look from Han. His stomach turned into a lump of ice.

"Go!" Han shouted.

Their glider still hummed on standby, only a few meters from where he stood, and Luke dashed for it, trained reflexes overriding furious rebellion. They were outnumbered, faced with odds that left him no choice.

Han would cover for his retreat, and Luke couldn’t spare a glance for the crossfire exchanged in his back, or leaving would become impossible. He jumped into the driver’s seat. Angry shots tracked him and tore a deep gash into the plasteel cowling, but a kick-start took the light craft out of firing range the next instant. And then he was racing down the alley at breakneck speed, hands steady on the controls, a swell of fury tightening his chest. His throat burned, and a single word pounded rhythmically in his mind: _No_.

* * *

Maccao eyed him impassively. "I had no part in this," he told Luke.

"No one else knew where we were going," Luke countered, arms crossed before his chest, trusting that Maccao was aware of his readiness to force answers, if necessary.

The older man rose from his chair behind the desk to confront him, motions brisk and controlled. "Whatever you take me for," he retorted, "this isn’t the way I handle problems. And although Han may not agree, I still consider him one of my people."

"That may be true," Luke agreed noncommittally. "But what of your... associates? Somebody realized what we were up to ― and where would they find out, if not here? Can you be so sure of everyone who works for you?"

"I know how much I pay them," Maccao said in the coolest tone.

"Then who?" The words came out too sharply, and Luke struggled for a semblance of composure. Giving in to his anger and desperation would get him nowhere with this man.

"In this business, making enemies is always part of the deal," Maccao pointed out, unmoved. "Han is no exception. Some of the stunts he pulled―"

"So? Are you prepared to do something about it?"

"Of course." Maccao tilted his head and gave Luke a look a amused tolerance. "Stun-blasts, you say? Means they’ve no intentions of killing him right away. Maybe they’re out for a ransom. We can get a fix on his comlink, in case they move him someplace else."

Luke bit his lip. "Sounds almost too easy."

"It isn’t, believe me." A wry, tight-lipped grin brightened the dark face. "Give me a minute to make a few calls."

Luke stood back as Maccao returned to his desk and activated the com panel, accepting that his only option was to wait and place his hopes with the other man’s honesty. In need of distraction, his restless gaze traveled along a row of holographs displayed on the shelf: portraits most of them, though there were some group shots that showed Maccao surrounded by expensively dressed, younger men. Friends, companions, maybe lovers. An impressive collection of frozen moments, paraded in the proud owner’s killing jar. The collection of a man who scattered his desires and loyalties with great prudence.

Just like himself, Luke acknowledged with a sudden, sharp twinge of bitterness. According love and allegiance to many, never to one alone. Fires squandered for fear of burning out with the one bright flame that would claim too much of his bruised soul ―

Luke recoiled from the thought. He had nothing in common with this man, a jaded, obsessive collector of luxuries and delights.

But he hadn’t said anything last night...

Faded and slightly blurred with the years, unnamed faces gazed back at him from the holos ...and there was Han, standing apart in smudged coveralls as if someone had hauled him into the picture at the very last instant: too-long hair falling into his face, lanky, sullen, insecure ― and so much younger. Luke closed his eyes against the stab of raw anguish.

Behind him, Maccao ended the communication. "My personal guards will be here in a few minutes," he said. "And I’ve got people monitoring the garage. Nobody’s leaving that place anymore."

Luke turned slowly. "Thank you," he managed.

"Least I can do for the friend of a friend." The tone was nonchalant, but the black gaze studying him was not.

Friend... A love secure from making excessive demands, by far more reliable than passion. He’d called Han his closest friend for years, unwilling to abandon that anchorage until it was too late.

"We’ll get him back," Maccao cut into his thoughts, offering something like a truce. He walked around the desk to stand closer, hands clasped behind his back. "And then ― what will you tell him?"

Jolted by his abrupt question, Luke felt his face tighten.

"There’s a time for holding on as there is for letting go," Maccao continued in that same, probing tone. "And if nothing else, letting go at least allows you to control the measure of hurt involved ― doesn’t it?"

"What do you know about me?" Luke snapped, stung by the other man’s subtle sarcasm.

"Nothing much," Maccao conceded readily. "Only what Han told me. Only what I can see in his eyes when he’s looking at you. And believe me, I’d pay a high price for that, if it was for sale."

"But how could I be sure―" Luke broke off before he could let it slip, aghast at his own lack of control.

Maccao nodded. "There’s always that risk, and perhaps you’d rather not get involved. In that case, I guess I’m free to make an offer Han couldn’t possibly refuse. He can have a life here, you know, and a job that pays well."

Luke swallowed drily. Before they’d stumbled into the ambush, he’d been ready to bow to the stale warnings of rationality sooner than take a risk. But the cold lodged too close to his heart now, and the answer was there, clear as daylight. He snatched it back ― words for Han to hear first, not this man.

"Don’t," Luke said tightly, giving away what Maccao had intended to coax from him all along.

There was a brief knock on the door.

"We’re off," Maccao said curtly, then, in a lighter tone Han might have used, he added, "Trust me."

* * *

Two Drakmarian bodyguards jumped from the elegant hovercraft and checked the dim passage with drawn blasters before they waved Maccao and Luke on.

"Where are we?" Luke asked, stooping into the low-roofed corridor.

"The back door," Maccao said shortly. "Part of a ventilation system we no longer use."

At the next turn, a bald, wiry man stepped from the shadows to greet Maccao. "They’re still inside, for all I can tell," he reported, raising his portable scanner. "I’m getting life-readings from the Wookiee, and Solo’s comlink registers in the vicinity."

"Good job, Syris," Maccao said. "How many of them?"

"Four men," the other interpreted his readings.

"There’s at least one droid to reckon with," Luke reminded them. "Battle type, one of the older models."

Syris nodded, then turned back to Maccao. "Drub’s party’s watching the front door," he finished.

"Then let’s move in."

They continued down the narrow passage until the Drakmarians waved them to a halt at a sharp bend. A cautious glance around the corner showed them an iron grate that sealed off the passage and the silhouette of a man guarding it from inside. His back was turned on them, and vague light slanted out from the corridor beyond the grate.

One of the Drakmarians slipped into the tunnel at Maccao’s wordless command. Luke heard a crunching sound and a muffled thud instants later. When they joined the Drakmarian, the guard had slumped to the ground and the scale-skinned humanoid was busy disabling the lock mechanism holding the grate in place.

Luke’s heart kicked at his ribs when they entered the building’s back section. He couldn’t allow a thought past the steely alertness, kept his senses focused exclusively on every detail of his surroundings and ready for split-second action. Next to him, Maccao pointed at a door on their right that had recently been fitted with a heavy lock, gleaming against the worn steel surface.

"Wonder what they keep in there," he muttered. "Syris, open that door ― quietly."

A tight-beam sliced into the lock like a scalpel and sent blue sparks spraying into the corridor, then the door swung inward. Syris waved a glowrod into the storage compartment.

Stepping closer, Maccao gave a low whistle. "Look at that..."

"What?" Luke asked, impatient at the delay.

Stacks of armored crates filled the compartment.

"Looks like we’ve found something else you were after," Maccao said. "An entire shipment of illegal arms, I bet. Worth a fortune."

Luke took a look around the room. "That explains a few things," he said reluctantly. "We stumbled right into their depot."

"Yeah. Although Han will probably claim he was following a hunch."

They shared tight grins, then proceeded down the hallway. Tension sharpened Luke’s perception as they drew closer to the repair shop, and he fought down an impulse to rush for it. They’d already passed a narrow door on their left when a strange tingle froze him in his tracks.

"In there," he said softly.

Maccao slanted him a curious glance and nodded at his bodyguards. "Alright. Go for it."

The bounty hunter stumbled backwards as both Drakmarians forced the door. Momentarily blinded by a flash of blaster fire, Luke ducked in after them.

Han was squatting on the ground, the battle droid watching over him with a cocked rifle hovering close to the captive’s head. The droid’s minimal delay in reacting to the attack gave Luke all the time he needed to aim and fire. The rifle spun from a scorched pincer-hand, and his next shot sent the droid crashing into the wall. Han staggered to his feet, still pale and shaky from the stun he must have taken earlier.

Heartbeat surging high in his throat, Luke crossed the room in fast strides to grip Han’s shoulders and pull him into a tight embrace.

"Glad you could make it," Han said with a dazed grin. "It’s been a boring party―"

"Don’t you dare to ever do that to me again!" Luke drew the dark head down and silenced Han with a brief, fierce kiss. The response was everything he’d wished for, everything he’d craved since that morning. When he let go, Han’s arms tightened around his waist and Luke smiled at him, warmed by what he could read in Han’s eyes.

"I can’t lose you again," he whispered, needing no reason ― except that Han was alive. "And I’m sorry, but I want you all for myself."

"Nothin’ to be sorry for, kid," Han said huskily.

The dim sound of shots filtered in from the repair shop, and they pulled apart.

"I think they’ve locked Chewie up in the ship’s cargo hold." Han’s gaze found Maccao, a step behind Luke.

"Don’t worry," Maccao said pleasantly. "I’ve got the whole place surrounded." At his gesture, the Drakmarians slipped from the room.

Before any additional explanations could be asked or given, Syris claimed their attention from the adjacent room’s doorway. "There’s a com unit in here that just self-activated," he said. "Ship’s calling from orbit. On an Imperial frequency, I think."

"Let me see." Maccao followed him into the small cubicle.

"What the hell’s going on?" Han asked and leaned against the wall to rub his forehead. "Man, my head feels at least twice the normal size."

"Relax, it looks alright to me," Luke reassured him drily. "I’ll fill you in on the details later, but it seems someone’s converted the garage into an arms depot. We’ve found―"

The sound of soft steps sent a flash of alarm through him. Luke twisted around, heard Han mutter "Oh damn―"

Demian stood in the open door, a blaster trained on them both.

Han straightened and took a step towards the man. "What do you want?"

"I’ve told you before, Solo," Demian said in all too sober tones. "Don’t come back here. If you refuse to listen to good advice, you’ve only got yourself to blame."

"Hey, what’d I do?" Han answered flippantly, moving away from Luke in an attempt to focus Demian’s attention on himself.

"You’re just getting in my way too often, that’s what. I’ve got the deal of my life coming up, and you’re not gonna spoil it for me this time."

Luke could see the truth register on Han’s face, the brief instant when confidence faltered at the wash of surprise. "So you’re the one who’s helpin’ to keep an ex-Empire alive?"

Demian’s smile was almost sympathetic, except for the hard, remote look in his eyes. "You’re never gonna learn. I’m not a man of honor, remember? That stuff’s for romantics of your type, not me. And believe me, Solo, it’s gonna be a sheer pleasure to blast you from here to Kingdom Come."

Luke readied himself, cautiously moving his hand towards the lightsaber hidden from sight under his tunic.

"Does Maccao realize?" Han asked in a tight voice.

"He doesn’t." The answer came not from Demian, but from Maccao himself who’d emerged from the adjacent room, smoothly stepping into Demian’s back. Freezing, the tall, silver-haired man closed his eyes.

The blaster’s discharge rang obscenely loud in the small chamber and continued to reverberate in Luke’s ears as Demian doubled over and collapsed.

"He didn’t, ‘cause he’s a damned old fool," Maccao muttered, holstering his sidearm. Even as he turned from the lifeless body, Luke could see the years catch up with him. It was in the slump of his shoulders, in the blurred motion of his hand dragging through curly hair, in the clouded gaze.

Han walked up to Maccao’s side and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder in an awkward gesture, quietly despairing of the comfort it offered.

"I’m sorry," Luke said, not sure if either man had heard him, because his voice caught with a strange, sudden pain.

Maccao straightened at the sound of shouts and gunfire erupting once again from the repair shop. "We’ve got work to do," he said briskly. "What’re you waiting for?"

* * *

The bar was less crowded that night, when Han made his way to Maccao’s office. He’d never seen the room in such a state of blatant neatness before: stacks of files had been cleared away, and most of the holos had disappeared from the shelf. Maccao waved him in, still talking to someone over the comlink.

"That Imperial frigate just left orbit," he announced when he’d terminated the call. "Must’ve realized their contact won’t deliver."

"Are you okay?" Han asked bluntly.

For a brief second, the facade of smooth efficiency wavered, then Maccao shrugged and resumed sorting through the datatapes on his desk, his mouth set in a tight line. "Give it some time, and I will be. Maybe I could use a little holiday someday."

"Maybe you could use a drink and a talk right now."

A twisted grin eased past the steely composure when Maccao looked up. "You’re a pain in the butt, Han Solo. But that’s something you must’ve heard before."

"Sounds familiar." Han found the bottle and glasses on the top shelf and set them down on the table with pronounced clinks, then flopped into one of the chairs.

After a moment’s hesitation, Maccao joined him. "I’ll have the drink, but I don’t think I wanna talk."

"Okay." Sipping on Maccao’s favorite brandy, Han felt the day’s tension drain away gradually while his mind filled with disconnected thoughts and unanswered questions, multiplying in the silence that’d settled around them. Maybe the very same thing was happening to Maccao, Han guessed, when the older man set his glass down hard and shook his head as if to rid himself of unwanted thoughts.

"Remember what I used to tell you?" Maccao asked. "The first rule that beats all―"

"Yeah," Han said slowly. "Trust no one."

"I should’ve known better, huh?"

Han shook his head. "You can’t live like that indefinitely. I couldn’t."

"That’s why you’re a hero, like it or not."

"I’ll keep a low profile. Maybe people will forget about it eventually."

Unexpected amusement lit the black eyes that studied Han. "I don’t think Luke’s gonna let you," Maccao said. "As a matter of fact, I have a feeling you’re in for a few more radical changes."

"We’ll make it work, somehow," Han tried, not entirely successful at projecting confidence.

"Got more on your hands than you think you can handle?"

"No," Han said impulsively, then gave a helpless shrug. "It’s just that... hell, maybe I’m about to scare myself, ‘cause it means so goddamned much―"

Maccao cut him short with an impatient gesture. "Don’t tell me. I’m not so sure I wanna hear... Tell _him_." He rose and waved towards the door. "In case you didn’t get it. That was a polite way of saying _get outta here_!"

Han turned with a mock-salute. "Yessir," he muttered, grimacing at the sudden flickers of electricity that stirred in his gut ― for no reason at all.

* * *

From the window, the travelling lights of a small craft slid across the rumpled sheet, painted shadow-streaks and silver brightness on the darkened room’s walls for a brief second. Luke reached out to touch the heated face resting against his belly, the fingers of his other hand still firmly entwined with Han’s. The throbbing in his body ebbed to leave a sweet, solid heaviness, and every moment lengthened, opened into darkness like a promise.

Floating back down from incredible heights, Luke savored the silence and the simplicity of body-heat merging, breath calming. Opening up a space to talk. They hadn’t taken the time for talking, before.

When Han had returned to the suite and they were finally alone, nothing had seemed to matter except the blunt fact of survival ― to share and taste that sense of triumph, a primal, unreasoning thrill. As if turning the residue of adrenaline and gut-twisting relief into passion offered a special kind of security.

_Come to bed with me_. Nothing more.

Luke felt a thoughtless smile tug his mouth at the residue of overloading sensations which had branded his nerves and marked every inch of skin ― the rough grip of strong hands stripping off his clothes, pangs of heat at the feel of hard flesh urging against his belly, pulsating between his fingers... and the incredible gentleness of Han’s lips and tongue, teasing him, commanding and flinging his senses to dizzy heights that still scared him, because Han took him to a place where every protective thought faltered before the tides of pure feeling.

"Han?" Luke whispered, not quite trusting his voice yet.

There was a disparaging snort for an answer.

"Hey..." Luke slid his fingers through already ruffled hair and coaxed Han’s head up. "Something wrong?"

Reluctantly, Han shifted to stretch out by his side. "No," he muttered, "it’s just ― well, I got going a bit too fast, I guess."

Luke smiled, wondering if Han realized just how much his impatience had revealed. "The night’s not over yet, you know."

"Yeah, right."

Closing his eyes as a rough cheek rubbed against his own, Luke wrapped an arm around Han’s shoulders and held him tigthly.

Han drew a deep, shaky breath. "So we got the job done much sooner than we thought, huh? Means we gotta go back ‘n report."

"Uh-huh. They might even want to decorate you again."

"No thanks," Han grunted. "Then again ― I’ve really blown it this time, so they might as well. I thought I was just an ex-general..."

"By choice―"

"...but now I’m an ex-scoundrel on top o’that. You heard what Demian said about my sense of honor. Tragic."

"I’m sure your ego will take a while to recover from that blow," Luke teased.

Han leaned up with a crooked grin. "Wanna help?"

"If you give me a good reason why I should..." Luke’s fingers traced Han’s jawline gently, rested there, and another small motion brought their lips together.

The kiss was nothing like the explosive passion that had rendered them breathless just a few minutes ago ― but Han let a lot of feeling slip into that kiss, and when it ended, brushed his mouth against Luke’s ear.

"What can I tell you?" he murmured. "Luke―"

"No, my turn," he interrupted. "My turn to try and say a few things." He held Han’s eyes, offered insecurity instead of the usual resolution, the already made-up mind. "It’s like something in me’s been waiting for this so long, but I never really wanted to know..."

"That’s okay." Han slowly laced his fingers through Luke’s. "Happens to most of us. There’s times when you just can’t allow anyone too close. And ― I’ve seen things happen to you, Luke. I was there... most of the time."

"Yeah. Maybe that’s why." Luke felt a strange leap of breath inside him ― as if the change had finally hit home ― and there wasn’t any reason left to fumble for explanations. He’d put up with lightning changes in his life before. "Because we were that close already, and giving in to this... maybe I was afraid I couldn’t hold it together any longer."

"One false move brings the whole house of cards down, huh?" Han shook his head. "You’re crazy. And you... I guess you’ve been holding bits of me together much longer than you know."

Luke felt his throat tighten and abruptly pulled Han into his arms. "I want to be―" He stopped, and when he looked up caught an unfamiliar softness in Han’s eyes.

"Now you listen to me, okay?" Han growled. Against his side, Luke could feel the deep breath he took. "I’ve been a right bastard last night... this morning..." Han said, eyes averted. "Just like the old days, you know. Grab whatever you can get, ask no questions."

"What were the questions you didn’t ask?"

"Something like... what’s it take to make you lose your head and fall... like I did... promise you’ll love me―"

"No need to ask." Luke buried his face at the curve of Han’s neck and felt a pounding heartbeat there. "All I needed was a little time." A blatant understatement, he knew that well enough, and there were steel-clad, sharp-edged reasons why he’d held back so long, but Han had most likely figured them out already.

"Yeah, well, what d’you think I’ve been sticking around for?" Han grumbled. "Patience pays off, like I’ve told you before."

"Like _you_ told me?"

"Didn’t I? Well, I’m telling you now." Han lifted Luke’s face to his own for a lighthearted kiss, then ran his palm down Luke’s chest with a speculative smile. "And look where it got me..."

  
EPILOGUE  


Luke was still asleep when Han sat down in the empty bar, a steaming mug of caffin before him. Neither of them had had much sleep last night, and Han toyed with the idea of crawling back into bed after breakfast. The job was done, and he wanted to share every remaining minute of privacy with Luke before duty caught up to them with the usual snarls and burdens. To talk, to listen and study the beautiful, mobile face, to feel the brightness of Luke’s eyes settle on him and love him some more... Han surrendered himself to pleasurable fantasies and didn’t notice Maccao until the other man slipped into a seat across the table.

"Good morning," he said amiably.

"Morning." Han grinned, simply because he felt so good and couldn’t stop himself.

Maccao shook his head at him. "Buddy, you’ve got circles under your eyes like you’re in bad need of a holiday. Had a rough night, huh?"

"Rough’s not what I’d call it," Han muttered, at once flustered and immensely pleased with himself.

"Perhaps not." A grin twitched in the corners of Maccao’s mouth. "And perhaps I should’ve warned you that my bedroom’s right next to your suite."

Han had raised the mug to his lips and gulped in reflex. "What?" he sputtered.

"In fact, I found it a little difficult to sleep last night," Maccao continued, unperturbed. "What with the constant noise..."

"There’s always been a lot of night-time business round this place," Han tried for a deadpan riposte. He wasn’t blushing either, it was just too damn hot and stuffy in this joint. "Traffic, too."

"Traffic. Right." Maccao, by the glint in his dark eyes, was beginning to enjoy himself. "Right through the middle of your suite, rattling the bed every other hour, no less..."

"It’s called the Corellian Overdrive," Han retorted, playing along. If Maccao got a kick out of ribbing him, fine. The man’s vivid amusement was a major improvement over the bleak, defeated look he’d worn the night before.

" _Corellian_ Overdrive?" Maccao’s eyebrows arched in perfect imitation of disbelief. "From what I heard, the kid was wearing _you_ out, old buddy." He leaned a little closer. "Told you there’s more to him than he lets on, didn’t I?"

"Yeah, right," Han grumbled.

"Might be too much for you to handle on a permanent basis, though," Maccao teased him mercilessly. "But if you’re ever in need of ― what d’they call ’em? ― hormonal enhancers, I might have some recommendations for you."

Perhaps the subject had turned into a private mood-lifter for Maccao; Han still figured he’d taken the joke far enough. "Look here, _buddy_ ," he growled, "hormones ain’t what it’s all about."

"Oh yeah?" Maccao’s tone changed, growing soft and intense. "So what _is_ it about?"

"It’s..." Han threw out a hand to gesture awkwardly. "You’ve seen him. Us. Luke’s one of a kind, and I..." His voice wavered before he could help it. "I love him."

Maccao smiled. "That’s just what I was hoping to hear," he said quietly. "Now go on back to him." In another quicksilver shift of mood, he winked at Han. "I’ll be out and about all day, so don’t worry about moving to a different bedroom. I’ll see you later."

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> First published in: NO HOLDS BARRED 17, 1998.


End file.
